Where’d the armadillo go?

Last Saturday I went to the jeweler to change a diamond ring which was scratchy and uncomfortable. Bit of a twisted story behind this one: essentially, Husband bought me a ring and I snucked back to the shop to exchange it but then decided that I preferred Andrew’s original choice so went to swap it back again. This is four years later mind you, but I’ve known Kieren for a while and he is used to my whimsy.

Anyway, we were standing in the shop and a woman and her husband were in the process of buying a 5 carat diamond ring. The woman was torn between two choices; one a baguette cut shiner and the other an emerald cut monstrosity. Since her husband appeared to be present in a purely purchasory capacity, she turned to me and asked which one I preferred.

I didn’t think anyone would thank me for pointing out that both rings were ostentatiously foul with roughly the same aesthetic qualities as a chunk of rubble mounted on a Pepsi ring-pull. The emerald cut ring was a frankly criminal waste of £33000 apart perhaps from its potential as a deadly weapon. So I picked the one I loathed least of the two.

“That one,” I said pointing to the baguette.

Well, either she didn’t believe me or she simply wanted everyone else in the shop to appreciate how moneyed up they were, because she quizzed all the women for their opinion, ending up with equal baguette and emerald votes.

She finally consulted her silent partner: “Which one do you like?”

“The cheapest one!”

Then Kieren upped the stakes by producing a 5-carat princess cut diamond, which sat about three inches off her hand and should have come with a safety notice: “Protective eyewear should be worn when looking directly at the stone’. She repeated the poll. Unfortunately, since there were six women present, she ended up with two votes for each ring.

She finally opted for the throbbing princess cut diamond because it was the most expensive. And she’s got her hand extended and is turning it this way and that, and you keep expecting an armadillo to crawl out from under it - you can barely make out her fingers beneath the boulder. And she’s going:

“Hmm. Do you think maybe it needs a couple of emeralds on either side?”

And I’m thinking: WHERE?

And then I’m thinking: Babycakes, you may have the dosh, but there’s no buying taste

Here’s the weather

Location: Dubai, UAE

Temperature: 36°C

Feels like: A pig on a spit

Condition: Sunny to blinding

Visibility: 6.2 miles

UV index: 7 High (Nivea factor 25)

Relative Humidity: 38%

Wind: WNW at 18 kph (11 mph)

Wind chill: 36°C

Sunrise: 6:11 AM

Sunset: 6:07 PM

Civil twilight: 6:30PM (cocktails with umbrellas mandatory)

Barometric Pressure: 29.8″ hugs (F)

Dewpoint: 20°C

Heat index: 39°C

 

I’m so pleased I got that off my chest

Impression of a worn brake pad

Just found out I can do a mean impression of a worn brake pad

Spirit of snorkdom

Last Friday we drove to the East Coast with Wayne and Keren. Originally, the objective was to go snorkeling - at least, that was my plan. However, Andrew bailed - said he was never keen on the idea and I just blithely assumed he would enter the spirit of snorkdom without adequate consultation (here’s where a rolling-eye smiley would come in useful). Then Wayne got The Lurgy and Keren feared a snorkel might incubate bacteria - not to mention introducing the danger of his choking on his own mucous. [But what a way to go! Sounds like a rockstar check out.]

 

Eventually we drove 180km to eat lunch and sit in a swimming pool, in much the same manner we would have done had we remained in Dubai. However, everyone agreed that it was worthwhile to get away from the city.

 

Keren and I go in for Extreme Gossip - we have been known to keep a conversation alive for five hours with only a two-minute break for refreshment (as per universal regulations applicable to competition chat). We yapped all the way out of Dubai, one and a half hours to the East Coast, through lunch, included the guys for some group discussion in the pool and on into the changing rooms.

 

WELL, what a shocker: we were out-talked by The Boyz. I didn’t think it possible to sustain a conversation about motorbikes, computers and soldering techniques for a solid six hours - but the guys put on a blistering display of virtuoso waffle.

 

I tried to keep up the girlie side - I really did - but even as I felt my Duracell-like vocal chords wilt in exhaustion, I could hear the boys enthusiastically debating the merits of IBM versus Compaq laptops. Long after Keren and I had lapsed into silence they were still blethering on about performance cars. It was a fair contest, and we were frankly outmatched.

 

Andrew: “The new Lamborghini Diablo might look alright, but the clutch is very heavy, it’d practically break your ankle. And it doesn’t corner very well-”

 

Me: “What, you’ve driven it?”

 

Andrew: “Ah no, I read a review.”

 

I was designated chauffeur on the drive home. I’m not that familiar with the route, and Andrew likes to issue directions in a staccato burst: “LeftleftleftLEFTLEFT!”, usually as I’m thundering past the relevant slip road at warp speed.

 

One day I’ll execute a handbrake turn at 160kph and see how he likes it

Carnivorous weeds

We’ve had a relaxing weekend and Andrew spent most of yesterday out in the garden. He likes to kick off a weekend morning with some high-volume motorbike revving, followed by lawn mowing and hammering. Occasionally when he really feels the urge to express himself, he’ll fire up the nail gun or circular saw.

After he’s woken up the neighbourhood, he’ll stand around our six foot patch of grass sweating manfully, scratching his stubble and displaying the most spectacular case of builder’s bum I have ever seen short of an Irish construction site. And that’s saying something: we Irish know all about the craic.

If he keeps practising, he should be able to store a pair of hedge clippers down there before long.

[Do I go in for the bottom jokes too much? Sorry - they're my FAVOURITE although I draw the line at farting humour, which is altogether peurile. I can't understand these people who go in for lewd jokes, Michael Jackson jokes (which probably fall under the same category) and animal jokes at the expense of the humble backside - I'm thinking of lobbying for more arse jokes as a possible route into politics or the diplomatic corp. But for your sake I'll try to keep them in check.]

I’m not sure what Andrew finds out in the garden to hold his attention for so long. We were both originally agreed that we wanted a low-maintenance affair out back. To me, that implied paving the entire area, maybe with a border of gravel and a decorative flourish of boulders surrounded by more gravel. You have to admit it’s the ultimate in low-maintenance as gardens go - and very zen. I had visions of Andrew sitting in the lotus position on a large rock, meditating and chanting: “Ooohmmm”.

Visions were about the extent of it: sadly, Andrew vetoed my plan - man could not grasp the ecologically friendly essence of my Gravel Garden.

Yet still there is not that much to maintain - half our plants died while we were in NZ, and the ones that didn’t are the equivalent of weeds. Let’s face it, to thrive through the desert summer and Andrew’s erratic sprinkler system, they’d need to be pretty hardy. The ones left are so hardy you could raze them at the roots and they’d spring back to twice their original size within 24 hours. We’re afraid to get too close to them in case the things eat us

Livid pods

In order to transfer my residency visa from Ex-Employer to Husband’s sponsorship, we must send our marriage certificate to the Irish Embassy in Riyadh. The Embassy will verify that it is indeed a Marriage Certificate as stated at the top of the document and will thereby authorize the British Embassy in Dubai to notarize it.

And that’s before we even start applying for residency.

About six months ago, we had to present our Marriage Cert to the bank to set up an account, after which it vanished. There’s been no sign of it since.

I like to maintain a list of things to worry about on a rotational basis, and coming up to our holiday the absence of marriage certificate hit the number one spot. I scoured the house, riffling through the safe, tearing apart cupboards, sniffing under beds, digging down the back of the sofa, turning out pockets. I went through all likely folders, shook out books, turned up carpets.

I’d been nagging Husband ever since returning from NZ to find the thing, not particularly because I like to make his life a living hell - although that’s a bonus - but since he was the one who saw it last.

This morning, worn down by months of shrewishness, he finally engaged in what I’ve come to know as The Mystery of the Disappearing Marriage Certificate. After five minutes, he appeared in the bathroom door.

“What d’you call this?” he said, flapping something under my nose.

It was our marriage certificate.

“No way!” I breathed in awe. Andrew ‘Sniffer Dog’ Shaw strikes again! My husband appears to have a supernatural ability to track down errant items, including on one occasion a pair of sunglasses that had been knocked off my face by a big wave. Considering the sea was a roiling whiteout of surf that day, and the fact that the Gulf is 241,000 square kilometers in area, you’d have to admit the man’s got a gift.

“Where did you find it?” I asked.

“In the safe,” said Andrew.

“No no, that’s not possible,” I said. “I looked in the safe like, about four times.”

In fact, the safe had been the first place I looked; and in the strange way your mind plays tricks on you, I’d rechecked it on no less than three subsequent occasions. Not to mention all the times I’d opened it to put in or remove jewelry - ie on average once a day.

“Well, it was there.”

Embarrassingly, our safe is about the size of a small microwave. You know, like a hotel room safe? Two shelves. 10″H x14″W x10″D, on a good day. Fifteen cubic litres. In other words, you’d be hard pressed to lose an atom in there. Additionally, it’s not as if it’s littered with documentation. The top shelf is given over to jewelry - mainly mine - and the bottom hosts seven (that’s 7 - the number after 6) national bond certificates.

This is where I misplaced our marriage certificate. Which in this instance, possibly says more about my hunting/tracking abilities than Andrew’s superior skills.

While I’m on the subject of my general uselessness - and Andrew frequently complains that he comes off in my emails like the evil villain (I prefer arch villain myself) - oh no; before that I’ve got to tell you this. I came across a Nerd Test on the Internet the other day. It comprised 60 questions along the lines of: “Have you ever attended a StarTrek convention? - (a) yes, one a day (b) yes, once (c) yes once, but my heart wasn’t in it and I left early wearing a false moustache (d) how dare you! what are you trying to imply?” and “How would you rate your personal hygiene? - (a) attracts flies (b) makes me want to barf after 6pm (c) I brush my teeth when there are signs of mould (d) fastidious”.

According to your answers, you are categorized as a Nerd, Geek or a Dork. So I did the test as Andrew (I figured he wasn’t about to (a) sit through 60 questions; or (b) answer truthfully (that would be: the truth according to me)).

Distressingly, he is an Average Joe - totally shattering my illusions of my husband. I was convinced the test would confirm the fact that I was married to Ultimate Geek - but no.

Mind you, he was categorized as 39% Dork.

Tragically my license to scoff was rescinded by being pronounced - when I took the test as Me - 45% Dork.

http://www.okcupid.com/tests/take?testid=9935030990046738815

So where was I? Oh yes, general uselessness in relation to Yours Truely. Last weekend, we were in Satwa and, while Andrew was picking up a pair of trousers, I popped into a second hand bookstore. After five minutes, Andrew rang to tell me he was outside, waiting in the car on the other side of the road.

Well, I came out and walked across the road; I’m looking around and there’s no sign of Andrew. Is he double-parked? Has he driven off to find another space? Perhaps he was lying? I’m standing there staring around wildly, and (conscious of my lack of talent regarding Finding Things), decide to speed up the process and call Andrew for directions.

I’d dialed the number and had the mobile pressed to my ear when there was a loud beep and I practically fell off the pavement. I’m looking around to see who I can flick a V sign at - bloody rude git! - when the horn went again.

And it was Andrew, in the car, right in front of me. I mean his bumper was two metres away from my knees.

So what else? Oh yes, for some reason I’ve broken out in a rash of spots recently.

“I’m very spotty at the moment,” I remarked to Andrew, awaiting the impassioned protests and proclamations of undying love regardless of my pustular status.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” said My Beloved.

I changed the subject before he had a chance to remark on their throbbing, neon quality; or how I looked like the host vehicle for tiny alien babies about to burst forth from their livid pods

Shaving behind the ears

The Sunday Times reports that when some men get face lifts, they have to SHAVE BEHIND THEIR EARS